The PirkQlaters, the Useless, JamesPlaneWreck and Skittish Itz @ the Knitting Factory (5/23/13)

"I know you motherf*ckers know the words!" Ryan Sampson shouted midway through the second song.  And he was right: when the chorus rolled around again, the lyrics boomed out from the crowd.

I didn't really know the words.  In fact, prior to this show, I'd never heard nor seen the PirkQlaters before.  I knew the name, however, and their rep as Boise's premier ska band.  Also, I'd come to like many of the band's members both as musicians and as people; Sampson's last project, the now-defunct Hotel Chelsea, was one of the best punk bands in town, and I really don't want to think about how many drinks I've bought from him, Red Kubena, Justin Andrews and Luke Strother over the years.  Anyway, when I added all of this up, I had more than enough reason to check out this Knitting Factory show, which marked the PirkQlaters' rebirth.

There were already ninety people there when I arrived.  When the PirkQlaters played, there were so many that I didn't even bother to count.  I'll say this much, though: except maybe for Sonic Youth, I can't remember any other Knitting Factory show that was so well-attended.  I saw plenty of familiar faces as well, including Ivy Meissner, Dustin Verberg (Black Bolt), Josh Gross, Geno Lopez (the Sneezz), Travis Abbott (Obscured By the Sun) and at least two members of Piranhas (who were originally on this bill but didn't play, for some reason).

Local punk band Skittish Itz opened the show.  "It's not rocket surgery," lead singer Russ Worstell's t-shirt said.  Stupid on the surface but clever when you think about it--suited this band very well, I thought.  Not that their music sounded dumb; it was just that their catchy melodies and buzzsaw riffs did their damnedest to perpetuate that so-simple-anyone-can-do-it punk myth.  Their smart lyrics, complex arrangements, indomitable drums and fluid solos gave the lie, however.  But that just made their love of punk's idealized simplicity even more commendable.

JamesPlaneWreck played next.  After the show, a member of this band told me that they felt uncomfortable being on that big stage.  I can understand that, but from where I was standing, they looked and sounded as if they belonged up there.  Blasting out of the Knitting Factory's speakers, "F*ckin' With Ghosts" and "When We Start to Fold" never sounded more anthemic.  Aaron Smith's rough voice and guitar roared, Shaun Shireman's bass surged along underneath, Shane Brown carved some stinging leads out of his Idaho-shaped guitar and Andrew Bagley redlined his drums.  When the tip of Bagley's drumstick broke off at the end, I couldn't help but wonder why that doesn't happen more often.

Up next was the Useless.  Any fears that one may have had of a restrained, tactful performance were swiftly allayed by the blow-up doll that the band set down on the PirkQlaters' drum kit (it didn't stay up there for too long: one of the horn players chucked it into the pit, where the crowd proceeded to toss it, swing it around and bap each other on the head with it).  Anyway, this groups' throaty vocals, curling guitar licks, woozy brass and bouncy rhythms all sounded as winningly raucous as ever.  In keeping with the revivalist spirit of the evening, when people called out for a number from their straight-up punk days, the band busted it out in spite of their protests as to their age, weight and blood-alcohol level.  The mosh circle started up as soon as the first number kicked into gear, and the crowd in the pit kept up the cheering, jumping, dancing, chanting and fist-pumping straight through to the end.

The PirkQlaters provided a truly grand finale to the night.  Kris Simmons's chugging, melodic bass and Chris Devino's rip-roaring drums provided the engine for the blitzkrieg ska and pop-punk tunes.  Red Kubena's dreads flailed as he slashed away at his guitar, and his and Aaron Clayton's buzz complemented Ryan Sampson's manic chicken-scratch.  Meanwhile, Ryan Sampson's tuneful holler sounded in good form, and it met its match in Justin Andrews's rousing harmonies.  Andrews also pitched in with some jabbing saxophone solos and did pretty much everything he could to whip the crowd into a frenzy (strutting and jumping around the stage, hopping onto the drum riser and urging the crowd to clap to the beat, etc.).  Last but definitely not least, College of Idaho professor Luke Strother contributed some elegant trombone work, grinned, slapped his chest, sang along with and without his mic and generally looked the happiest that I've ever seen him.

Almost everyone in the audience was on their feet for the duration of the set.  The pit became a maelstrom of bouncing, moshing, singing, roaring and crowd-surfing.  The Useless's blow-up doll got popped and torn to shreds (I saw someone holding its arm later on).  A bra materialized on Luke Strother's mic stand.  Andy A from Demoni (and Eightball Break, which Sampson cited as the PirkQlaters' biggest influence) came onstage to play bass on a couple of numbers.  Shane Brown hopped onstage with his shirt open and jiggled his belly at the crowd.  Justin Andrews wished audience member Sage Cooper a happy sixteenth birthday and tossed him a frisbee signed by the band (it got tossed off to the side of the stage not long after; hope the kid got it back).  Between songs, Ryan Sampson crammed in jokes, stories, thanks to the audience and shout-outs to original PirkQlater Zak Gilstrap, the openers and the Boise music scene as a whole.

All told, this was easily one of the best shows that I've seen this year.  "And this is not the reunion show," Sampson told the crowd near the end.  "We're back, motherf*ckers!"

Ryan Sampson holding court at the after-party at Sammy's

You can find info on these groups on Facebook and elsewhere online.  If you like what you've read and would like to help keep it going, click the yellow "Give" button and donate whatever you can.  Even $5 would help.

Henry Rollins @ the Knitting Factory (9/18/12)

Even though this show didn't really have to do with music, I'd resolved to write about it.  Henry Rollins has been a huge inspiration to me for years.  From the music that he made with Black Flag and Rollins Band to his many books and spoken-word recordings/performances, the man has consistently shown intelligence, dedication and unflinching honesty.  He's not afraid to speak his mind, he tries not to take himself too seriously, he works hard and he has always seemed willing to go out and learn new things.  I try to emulate these qualities in my own life.

I'd originally planned to get down to the Knitting Factory good and early, since I figured that if any show would start on time, this one would.  Unfortunately, I'd gotten tied up with some stuff at home, so I didn't get there until around 8:05 pm and wound up missing the first few minutes of the show.  That wasn't too bad, though: Rollins had a LOT of things to talk about.

Clocking in at about two and a half hours, this spoken-word show actually lasted longer than some concerts I've been to.  Topics included Rollins's thoughts on this year's Republican National Convention (yes, he talked about Clint Eastwood and the chair), some clear-eyed reminiscences of his Black Flag days, his experiences while he was in North Korea and checking out Kim Il-sung's grave, his thoughts on the abortion debate (to wit: if you don't have a vagina, shut up) and his various misadventures while filming his show for National Geographic (I gotta wonder: who in God's name came up with the idea of "bulldogging" an alligator?).

As I watched and listened to Rollins, it occurred to me that you might think of shows like this one as a culmination of the various aspects of his fifty years on this earth (so far).  By talking for so long with barely a pause and without taking a drink of water (in spite of his profuse sweating), he probably showed something of the stamina and determination that saw him through countless gigs singing "My War" or "Liar."  The epic similes and surreal flights of fancy may have showed how writing several books has sharpened his literary skills.  The pacing of his tales, the telling details and the different voices that he slipped into may have evinced the same as well as lessons learned from acting in the odd movie and TV show (by his own admission, he's not much of an actor, but hey, you pick up a few things if you do anything long enough...).  Finally, his reflections on himself and the world around him gave the impression of a man who's been through more than most of us can probably imagine but who hasn't let it kill his compassion, his curiosity, his sense of humor or his determination to do the right thing.

I hung back after the show ended and watched people file out.  I noted the broad age range of the audience.  I thought about ending this post with something about how both younger and older folks could've taken something from this show, but that sounded too damn smug.  I'll just say that I took something from it and let it go at that.

For more info on Henry Rollins, you can go to henryrollins.com and search elsewhere online.

The Old 97's and Those Darlins @ the Knitting Factory (9/7/12)

The best comment I've ever heard about the Old 97's came from my dad: "They're what the Beatles would sound like if they hired Neil Young as a guitar player."  That gets them just about right, I think.  The Old 97's frequently get slotted as alt-country, but while they certainly make clear their strong roots music influences (hell, they took their name from a country song), you'd be hard pressed to find better straight-up pop-rock tunesmiths than this Texas quartet.  I've loved them since I discovered them in college, so it was a given that I'd go see them when they came to town.

I counted about fifty people when I got down to the Knitting Factory around 7:30 pm.  That was a pretty solid crowd, I thought, considering that showtime was listed as 8:00 on my ticket.  By the time that the Old 97's took the stage, the audience must have numbered well over a hundred and looked evenly split between twenty/thirty-somethings and forty/fifty-somethings.

At the request of the Knitting Factory's security, I didn't take any pictures with my phone during the show.  This means that my reportage will have to suffice for this post.  Sorry about that, folks.  I know it's not that big a loss, but still...

Rhett Miller, the lead singer and songwriter for the Old 97's, started off the evening's music early with a solo acoustic set.  From what I caught of it, he just performed songs from his recent solo albums (not counting his more than fitting cover of "Wreck of the Old '97").  His rapid, rhythmic strumming, his witty lyrics and his sly, aching tenor combined to provide a nice coming attraction for his set with the rest of the band later on.

The Nashville-based country-punk group Those Darlins played soon after Miller.  I'd seen them twice before at Neurolux, once opening for Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears and once headlining.  I'd greatly enjoyed them both times, and although they felt a notch less intense playing this far less intimate venue, I greatly enjoyed them this night too.  Sporting a skimpy, sparkling red dress and cropped, curly black locks, petite Jessi Darlin tossed off searing guitar solos and sang in a twangy, girly snarl that called to mind Wanda Jackson.  Nikki Darlin slashed out the rhythm on her guitar and complemented her fellow Darlin vocally with her low, breathy, sultry voice.  Meanwhile, new guy Spencer Duncan's limber bass and Linwood Regensburg's strong, restrained drumming kept things strutting, swaggering and zooming forward.  During his acoustic set, Rhett Miller told the crowd that Those Darlins were the Old 97's favorite new band.  The Darlins' smart, sassy, tunefully tough songs suggested that that may not have been your usual rock show jive.

Not long after Those Darlins finished, the Old 97's took the stage.  Wearing blue jeans and t-shirts, they looked as if they could've just climbed onstage from among the folks in the Knitting Factory's pit.  The higher end of Rhett Miller's voice show some signs of wear and tear and his bandmates had plenty of gray in their hair, but those seemed to have been the only concessions to ageing that this twenty year-old group has made so far.  They blazed through the entirety of their 1997 album Too Far to Care and an assortment of old and new songs with the joyful rowdiness of dudes half their age.  Miller did some cute little windmilling moves on his guitars and gave ample proof that his mid-range, shout and falsetto are holding up just fine.  Bespectacled Murry Hammond contributed some liquid basslines and got to croon lead on a few songs with his friendly, twangy drawl.  Ken Bethea delivered one fiery guitar solo after another for the entire set.  Philip Peeples's muscular, turbo-charged drumming sounded like he was channeling the spirit of Keith Moon.  By the end of their set, the 97's had nearly everyone in the crowd dancing, jumping and shouting.  Personal highlights included the careening, I'm-so-lonesome-I-could-explode opener/closer "Timebomb," the supernal one-night-stand vignette "Barrier Reef," the punky swing/stomp "The Grand Theatre," the utterly gorgeous "Question" and the raucous "Four Leaf Clover," which featured Jessi Darlin ably handling the Exene Cervenka part.

You can find info on the Old 97's and Those Darlins on Facebook and elsewhere online.

Peter Murphy, Ours and Michael Shapiro @ the Knitting Factory (8/12/12)

I saw Peter Murphy down in L.A. last December, and it was one of the greatest shows I've ever seen.  Between the three solid acts (Murphy, She Wants Revenge and an up-and-coming New York band called Hussle Club) and the stellar between-set mix (Iggy, X, Tones on Tail, etc), I got almost four hours of awesome music.  Murphy himself was downright magnificent: he caressed the ballads, scorched the rockers, tore the strings out of his guitar on "Stigmata Martyr," twirled, glided, playfully teased the audience, invited a teenage fan onstage and sang a tune with his arm around the blushing lad's shoulder.

So when I saw that he'd be playing Boise, it was a foregone conclusion.  I would go see him, period.

Unfortunately, not many others felt the same way.  Attendance was disgustly dismal for an artist and performer of this caliber.  Especially disappointing was the fact that I saw almost none of the local Goths in the meager crowd.  I've got love in my heart for the Goth community here in town, but it made me sick that almost no one besides DJ Bones bothered to come out for the man who wrote "Bela Lugosi's Dead."

First up was Michael Shapiro, the frontman from the San Francisco band Reckless in Vegas.  He got the evening off to a good start with plenty of friendly, self-deprecating stage banter and some catchy, smartly crafted tunes.  The songs would've sounded more complete with a full band (duh), but they held up fine with only Shapiro's guitar and rich, dramatic baritione for support.  A highlight of his set were a pair of songs written soon after his breakup with his fiancee four months ago.  One honored their love while the other flipped her the bird.  The latter seemed to go over just a little better with the crowd.

The New York City band Ours took the stage after Michael Shapiro.  With their all-black attire, chiming riffs, vrooming bass, mournful keyboard parts, danceable beat and tortured lyrics, this group could've sprung fully formed from Peter Murphy's head.  However, the solid craftsmanship of their songs enabled them to bear the weight of their audible influences (Bauhaus, Siouxie and the Banshees, the Cult, etc.).  As did their indomitable drummer, sharp guitar solos and charismatic frontman.

After Ours came Peter Murphy, whose set disappointed me like no other set has so far this year.  It wasn't flat-out awful, but it did suffer from some serious detractors.  Chief among them was that Murphy was clearly sick: he kept chugging water and blowing his nose between songs, and a very audible frog in his throat crippled his singing.  Occasional feedback from his mic and a couple of drunken hecklers didn't help matters either.  Still, the three backup musicians were definitely on their game, and Murphy retained enough of his stunning voice to nail a couple of ballads and work through the rockers that dominated his set.  Also, aside from those drunken dickheads, the modest audience gave the man a suitably warm reception.  Like I said: not bad, but severely disappointing.

The most heartbreaking moment of the night came after Murphy left the stage.  The crowd clapped and hollered and waited for an encore that clearly wouldn't come.  That didn't surprise me, given the sub-par condition of Murphy's voice, but it made me feel bad for everyone else.  Especially considering that I got two encores down in L.A..

My night did have a nice, restorative coda, however.  I stopped by Grainey's Basement after the Knitting Factory show and caught part of the set by the awesomely-named AlcoJuana, a punk/ska trio from WA.  These dudes were just straight-up raucous, trashy fun.  I stood outside the concert bunker and watched the Rainier-fueled crowd playfully mosh and stomp around.  Like Calvin and Hobbes said, "There's treasure everywhere!"

You can find info on these various acts on Facebook and elsewhere online.

Customary, The Green Zoo, Skyward Down and The Getaway Car @ the Knitting Factory (7/13/12)

Never let it be said that I won't give something a chance.  Originally, I had planned to check out Jason Anderson and The Very Most at Neurolux this night.  However, when I got a ticket to a show at the Knitting Factory featuring three groups I'd never heard of before, I said, "Hey, why not?"

The audience for this show was more than respectable for a bill of mainly local groups.  The crowd seemed comprised primarily of younger folks (late teens, twenties) with a few parents sprinkled around.

Portland-based hip-hop group Customary opened the show.  That name tempts the snarky bastard in me to say that they just wrote their own review, but that wouldn't be entirely fair.  The MC had some good rhymes, a decent flow and a welcome sense of humor while the DJ provided some pleasant, smooth R&B beats.  Not the Dedicated Servers, but not bad.

The Caldwell-based group The Green Zoo played next.  The larger venue space gave their intense guitar noise, lithely powerful drumming and booming vocals plenty of room to breathe, which helped make this performance more enjoyable than the gig that I caught at Grainey's Basement.  Some of the lyrics still make me cringe, and the air of self-importance that infects the music makes me want to firebomb a liberal arts college.  That said, I can't deny that this group's material has considerable melodic appeal or that they put on a good live show.

After The Green Zoo came the Meridian, ID-based alt/pop-rock group Skyward Down.  At one point in the set, lead singer Kerrie Meacham told the crowd that they hoped to get one of their songs onto the soundtrack for the film adaptation of Stephanie Meyer's The Host.  That right there should tell you whether or not this group's moody, swoony music is for you.  That said, while my taste in sci-fi may tend toward William Gibson, I found enough in their well-crafted songs to sustain my interest: guitar riffs with some bite, good melodies and beat, singing with a touch of sultriness that wisely kept the American Idol histrionics to a minimum.

Local four-man band The Getaway Car closed out the night.  Their set began with a child-narrated spoken-word intro that made me want to gag, and their U2-derived arena-rock theatrics (singing with a megaphone, climbing the scaffolding around the stage, waving a huge white banner during the set's climax) called for something grander or at least riskier than the safe, vaguely religious self-help homilies of the lyrics.  Still, this band wasn't without its merits: they had a muscular rhythm section, a pleasant lead tenor and, most prominently, a sharp, chiming lead guitar.  Also, I found their evident gratitude and good cheer entirely commendable.  These guys may be too bland and polite to dislodge The Clash or Exile On Main St. from my CD player, but I'll take them over Creed in a heartbeat.

You can find info on these groups on Facebook and elsewhere online.  Special thanks to Jennifer Orr and ORRiginal Promotions, who can be contacted at info@ORRiginalpromotions.com.

Toots and the Maytals and Voice of Reason @ the Knitting Factory (7/7/12)

This last Saturday night certainly did not lack live music options.  In addition to the Boise Music Festival, Neurolux, the Venue and the Red Room all scheduled promising shows.  However, with all due respect to the bands who played those shows, I had absolutely no trouble picking the one to check out.

For those of you who don't know who Toots and the Maytals are, they're almost synonymous with reggae.  I'm not exaggerating: their 1968 song, "Do the Reggay," helped give the music its name.  They recorded their early stuff with legendary producer Leslie Kong, who also produced records for Jimmy Cliff, Desmond Dekker and Bob Marley.  Two of their songs, "Sweet and Dandy" and "Pressure Drop," appeared on the soundtrack to the 1972 film The Harder They Come, which made reggae popular in the United States.  They've had their songs covered by The Clash and The Specials, among many others.  Robert Christgau once called Toots Hibbert "the nearest thing to Otis Redding left on the planet."

In short, this show was a chance to see A LIVING LEGEND.   And the tickets only cost $21 (plus the usual bullshit fees).  I'd have given a kidney to have seen this.

Most likely due to the Boise Music Festival, attendance for this show was ridiculously low.  I can't complain too much, though, considering that it gave me the chance to go down into the pit without feeling like a sardine.  Also, I took heart in the wide age range of the audience.  It made me especially glad to see folks who had brought their kids along.  That's raising 'em right, I thought.

Local reggae group Voice of Reason opened the show and delivered a solid if unspectacular set.  Of course, that was probably the idea: to acclimate the crowd and get them warmed up for the headliner.  The (white, American) frontman played some nice, restrained guitar and didn't sound too ridiculous singing in a Jamaican accent.  The bassist and drummer knew enough to always make their chops serve the groove.  The saxophone, trumpet and trombone players all got off at least one good jazzy solo apiece but didn't get too fancy or obtrusive otherwise.  Their original songs shrewdly borrowed from old-school reggae (one song lifted the intro from Culture's "See Them A Come") and then went off in their own directions.

Not long after Voice of Reason wrapped up, Toots and the Maytals took the stage.  The crowd roared as Toots Hibbert stepped out wearing shades, a black bandanna, a black leather vest, black leather pants and gleaming black dress shoes.  Nearly everyone (yes, even I) moved and sang along as Toots and his seven-person band played a selection of his classic material: "Pomp and Pride," "Time Tough," "Pressure Drop," "Bam Bam," "Funky Kingston" (possibly my favorite performance of the night--tough as hell), "Monkey Man."  Listening to these songs and watching the stage act, it occurred to me how strongly the Maytals were/are influenced by American music--blues, R&B, soul, gospel.  The lead guitarist even gave a Star Time-esque introduction ("Ladies and Gentlmen, please welcome to the stage...") before Toots came out.

Throughout the set, the rubbery bass and the rock-steady drumming served as the platform for the sweet harmonies, the alternately horn-like and Booker T.-esque keyboard parts and the fiery guitar solos.  Toots Hibbert commanded attention just by walking around the stage and letting his singing speak for itself (though he did break out some nifty footwork at the end).  His voice showed a little bit of wear and tear, as voices usually will over the course of a 50-year career in music, but it still retained plenty of grit, guts and soul.

Toots got to show just how well his voice has held up at the encore.  "STICK IT UP MISTER!" he boomed out, and the band launched into what may be my favorite Maytals song, the prison tale "54-46 That's My Number."  I liked how he chose to close out the night with a medley of this tune (which he recorded soon after his 18-month bit for marijuana possession) and a full-throttle gospel/ska rave-up.  "I was oppressed," he seemed to say, "but now I'm free and doing what I love."  I don't know if the other folks in the audience gave much thought to the possible implications of this number; they might've been too busy dancing, raising up their right hands, waving them in the air and giving it to Toots one, two, three, four, ten, eleven times (he did a double take after that last one).

"Everybody makes me feel so good," he said earlier in the show.  The feeling was mutual.

You can find info on Voice of Reason and Toots and the Maytals on Facebook and elsewhere online.

Lacuna Coil and Otherwise @ the Knitting Factory (4/14/12)

photo by Katja Kuhl

If you were to look at my music collection, I'd imagine that one of the more eyebrow-raising sections would be my five CD's by Italian rock band Lacuna Coil.  I don't count myself a member of what is affectionately known around Idaho as the "Metal Mulisha"; aside from this group, the only metal or metal-affiliated bands that I actively enjoy are Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin and Motorhead.  "What is it about them?" you may well ask.  Are they as iconic and as undeniable as those other three bands are?  Well, no, I wouldn't go so far as to say that, and I doubt that they would either.  Nonetheless, thanks to the way that they blend European, metallic hard rock with an unpandering pop accessibility, this group has won me over.

Exemplifying this blend first and foremost is Christina Scabbia, whose clear, beautiful voice breaks through and soars above the music's tumult like a dark angel.  I suspect that, for most of the group's fans, her singing provides their main point of entry into the music (that's true of me, at the very least).  She wouldn't be nearly as effective, though, without the counterpoint of Andrea Ferro, her vocal partner.  Ferro's rough yet approachable singing can shift from croon to howl wherever it's appropriate.  Paired together, the two singers fuse the heavenly with the earthy with the infernal.

Scabbia and Ferro's singing suits their words perfectly.  Because English is clearly their second language, some of Lacuna Coil's lyrics can be a little hard to understand at first.  That's rather appropriate, though, because confusion is their great subject.  In their songs, intimations of spiritual (lapsed Catholic, I'd guess--they're Italian, after all) temptations and dissatisfactions fuel depictions of dysfunctional relationships and anthems to defiance and perseverance.  Enthusiast of old-school American gospel and soul music that I am, this dynamic strikes a very familiar and welcome chord with me.

Last but not least, there's the music itself.  Marco Coti-Zelati's bass and Criz's drums infuse the typical heavy metal battering-ram rhythms with a lithe, body-friendly groove that has only grown more pronounced since their 2002 U.S. breakthough album Comalies.  Meanwhile, Cristiano Migliore and Maus' guitars emphasize droning, hypnotic, bone-sawing riffs over preening solo noodling (the few solos that they do essay take care of business and don't overstay their welcome).  When you add up these various elements and top them off with some comforting synthesizers, you get a rousing, solidly tuneful, metal-identified band that can plausibly cover Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence" and R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion."

Very fond memories of their 2009 concert here persuaded me to go see them again at the Knitting Factory last Saturday.  "Metal Gods" by Judas Priest played as I entered the venue.  As I looked around, I observed that, aside from a few 30/40/50-somethings sprinkled around, much of the audience looked to be in their mid-20's or younger.  Not a bad sign, I thought: if the show goes well, the crowd's youthful energy could help knock it up a few more notches.

Opening for Lacuna Coil was Otherwise, a five-man group from Las Vegas.  They got the show off to a fine start with some melodic, midtempo, radio-ready hard rock that kicked ass even on the power ballad that kissed off an ex-girlfriend.  Friendly and energetic, Adrian Patrick crooned, belted and growled like a born frontman.  The rest of the band backed him up with monolithic bass, fluid drumming and grinding guitar riffs.  Their closer, "Soldiers," had the audience clapping to the beat before the drummer started urging them to do so.  Patrick dropped down into the pit in front of the stage to sing with the crowd.  The sound of the sing-along chorus filled the entire venue.

Otherwise would've been worth the price of admission by themselves.  Lacuna Coil--who, as they mentioned a couple of times, are marking their 15-year anniversary with this tour--was even better.  They blazed through new and old material like a well-oiled machine.  Scabbia and Ferro traded vocals and almost never stopped moving to the beat and working the crowd.  The band's matching gothic-medical outfits and the moments where all the members (except the drummer, who had to keep the train moving) lined up in a row at the front of the stage made a clear point: this is not just a singers-and-backup organization but a unit, a family.

Mid-concert, Coti-Zelati and Criz got to take a breather while their bandmates played a five-song acoustic set.  Instead of being boring or self-important, this part of the show had a similar effect that Nirvana's Unplugged album did: it exposed the solid craftsmanship, spiritual yearning and emotional power at the heart of the group's songs.

By the time that they played their encore ("My Spirit," which they dedicated to their departed friend and inspiration, Peter Steele of Type O Negative), the show had almost taken on the feel of a religious experience.  At the end, the band's six members lined up, bowed together and waved goodbye for now.  As the audience headed for the exits, I saw a couple of younger folks staggering away from the pit.  They looked dazed, delighted.  I smiled to myself and nodded.  "Yeah," I thought, "that's about right."

You can find more info about Otherwise and Lacuna Coil and hear samples of their music on Facebook and elsewhere online.